


Two-Hander

by coulsons-hawk (allyoop)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Film Industry AU, Films, Hollywood, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoop/pseuds/coulsons-hawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>two-hander; [ˌtuːˈhæn.dər] adj.<br/>1. a term for a play or film with only two characters<br/>2. what Clint Barton's life seem to have narrowed down to. Just him and Phil. Two characters intwined in one story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I - Nighttime, the Park

**Author's Note:**

> Film industry AU.
> 
> All photo references and informative notes about the world can be found at coulsons-hawk.tumblr.com/tagged/industry au

[Scene 1]      

He really hates revolving doors. He was pretty sure there’s a circle of hell where one is stuck in a revolving door for eternity, doomed to watch the outside world through a spinning glass prison.

       Clint was already running late when his backpack strap got caught in the door, jamming the mechanism, and effectively trapping him. There was no one in the vicinity except a receptionist sitting too far away to help. Eight long minutes later, he had wiggled and tugged the strap back out, and escaped through the door’s mouth. He was horribly late, rumpled, and sweaty. He jogged as casually as he could through the expansive atrium up to the desk. The receptionist was bobbing her head to her iPod, oblivious to Clint standing there. It took a few loud hellos until she glanced up from her screen.  
      “Casting call is down the hall to your left. Then go through the first chrome door you see.”  
     “I’m not an actor.” That caught her full attention. She looked at his worn leather jacket, purple v-neck, and jeans. Even with drops of unseemly sweat on his brow, his hair was a perfect mussed bed-head and his face was chiseled in a way that would read wonderfully on film.  
     “Are you sure? Because you’re way too hot for ‘not an actor’.  You got this great 'casual confidence' thing going on for you.”  
     “Look,” He glanced at her nametag. “ _Darcy_. I’m sure you mean well, but I’ve got an appointment with someone named Fury and I’m already late. Just tell me where to go.” She frowned. “Please?”  
     “Whatever, handsome. I know you’ll be back; the Director has a certain way with people. Go up the stairs, past the double glass doors, and you’ll know his office when you see it.”     Clint sped down the hall, tossing a thank you behind him. He had no time for thoughts about Darcy or acting or Fury. He swung his backpack across to his front as he ran, pulling out the most important binder of his life.  
      The receptionist was right. He knew he was outside Fury’s office when he saw it. It was different from all the other doors in the hall; it was made of solid wood rather than glass and the window into the office was shuttered. A silver eagle in a circle, the symbol for Shield Studios, graced the door. There was no nametag, but the sense of power was unmistakable. Clint knocked.  
     “Come in, Barton.” 

~   
  
     Fury leaned against his desk, flipping through the binder. Clint nervously tapped his fingers against his knee, feeling like the child he once was, waiting in a principal’s office for the (usually bad) news. It had been twenty minutes of silence and Fury’s face was blank; Clint had no idea what he was thinking. Fury closed the binder and placed it on his desk. He faced him, eyes narrowed, and Clint stopped fidgeting.  
     “They’re good.” Clint breathed. “You’re definitely one of the best I’ve ever seen. Even though you only showed me stills, I can still tell you have a sharp eye for composition.” Clint wanted to smile, but something in the air still felt charged and nervous.  
     “But,” Fury stood up from his desk and turned to look out the window to the street below. “That’s not why I wanted to interview you today. I’ve seen your résumé and your portfolio, and I’ve also seen you.” He turned to face Clint, a heated intensity in his expression. “You’re here because I’m making you an offer. Have you heard about the Avenger Initiative?”  
     “The documentary subsidiary of Shield Studios? Yeah, of course. Why?”  
     “The Initiative needs you. Actually, it needs your face.”  
      It suddenly dawned on Clint. “If you’re asking me to be an actor, I’m not doing that again. Acting as a kid screwed me up, and it was a hellish circus that I vowed to never go back to.”  
     “What if I personally guaranteed your safety and privacy? Shield has some of the best PR and bodyguard companies working for us.”  
     “It’s Hollywood. With all due respect sir, you can’t fucking guarantee anything.” Clint quickly regretted his tone, but Fury let out a gruff laugh.  
     “Okay Barton. Have it your way. The Initiative needs a new cinematographer. You in?”  
     “It’s paid?”  
     “Not as good as acting. But it’s paid.”  
     “I’m in.”  
     “Glad to hear you say that.” Fury handed back his binder. “As much as I’d like to hold on to this, there’s one more person you need to talk to. Take this to him.”  
     “Sir?”  
     “First door at the end of the hall. Look for the nametag ‘Coulson’.”  
  
  Fury watched Clint’s retreating body through the slats in his window shutter. “Maybe he can change your mind.” 

\---   
[Scene 2]

 

       Compared to all of Fury’s spacious grandeur the office marked ‘Coulson’ seemed intimate. A frosted glass door showed only cloudy shapes as Clint reached to knock.  
     “It’s open.”  
      The shapes proved to be a well-suited man crouched over his desk with black-framed glasses slipping down his nose, clearly focused on his work. Clint stood awkwardly in the doorframe, waiting. His eyes traced the sharp lines of the man’s hunched shoulders and up to his jaw. If Clint spent slightly too long staring, he’d blame nerves and caffeine rather than a different type of butterflies in his stomach.  
     The man finished typing and stood, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his shoulders. Clint couldn’t help but watch the muscles flex. “Sorry about that. I had to send an email off to a producer. He’s a demanding pain in my ass, but he almost singlehandedly funds the studio.” The man offered his hand and a half-smile. “My name is Phil Coulson. And you must be the Clint Barton that everyone is talking about.”  
     Clint shook his hand. “I sure hope the talk is good. I only just got here; don’t want to have a bad rep already.”  
     Coulson raised one eyebrow. “You don’t need to worry about your reputation here, Barton. Your portfolio precedes you. I’ve seen _Bite the Rein_.”  
     Clint chuckled. “Congrats, you’ve joined the grand total of five people who have seen that movie.”  
     “Make that six. Fury watched it as well. It’s really quite stunning.”  
     He tried to shrug it off. “It’s from four years ago. I barely knew how to work my camera.”  
     Coulson gave a small exasperated huff. “Don’t sell yourself short, Barton. The fact that you even managed to salvage that disaster of a production should have earned you a nomination.” He took the binder from Clint’s hands, flipping through it quickly, like he was already familiar with the images. He stopped and held up a familiar sepia still. “Even with post’s butchered job of tinting, the composition of this shot avoids every cliché in Westerns yet still conveys that brotherhood of man and horse that audiences expect. You made Blaze just as important of a figure as Sheffield in one establishing shot.”  
     Clint shuffled his feet, feeling awkward under Coulson’s unwavering eyes. “Just trying to do the best job I can.”  
     “And that is why we’re hiring you. We need a beautiful film more than another beautiful face.” He held the binder out to Clint and gave him a long once-over. “Although our receptionist makes a valid point…”  
     Clint knows he should take it as a compliment, but he couldn’t help but bristle at the idea. “Not again.” Clint murmured.  
     “Do you trust me, Barton?”  
     “I just met you.”  
     “Exactly. Do your job and convince everyone that you are more than your past. Make us trust you. And I’ll do my job until you trust me too.”  
     “What exactly is your job?”  
     Coulson’s eyes twinkled but he didn’t answer. “We start shoot Monday. Be there early and I’ll walk you through what you missed.”  
     Clint glanced at the call sheet he had just been handed. “A city park? What are we filming?”  
     “Welcome to _The Last Green Space_.”  

\---    
[Scene 3]

 

      Waking up before sunrise always left an acidic taste in his mouth. But he had prep to do and impressions to make, so Clint dragged himself to location with a couple extra cups of coffee in his system. Once he arrived to that flash of green amongst the slabs of high rises, he knew it would be worth it.  
  
       He had just repacked his camera when he spotted the telltale vans pull up alongside his beater car. Coulson exited from the first van, pausing to say something to the driver, and made a beeline for Clint. He was in a grey suit today, one that shone silver in the now fully risen sun. Clint’s insides twisted as Coulson approached.  
     “Hungry?” Coulson asked, misinterpreting Clint’s unconscious grab at his stomach. “Craft services will be up in five minutes.” He took a moment to survey Clint’s small pile of tripods and camera cases. “Been here long?”  
     “Not very,” he lied easily. “Just getting some shots before it gets crowded.”  
      Coulson gave him an approving nod. He glanced back behind him at the vans. “First come, first serve.” He said to Clint.  
      A long white table had been unfolded and laden with bagels, fruit, a fancy coffeemaker, and condiments of every type. Unable to make up his mind, and wanting to take full advantage of the free food, Clint grabbed one bagel and topped it with lox and onions, and a second one with triple-berry cream cheese.  Despite the 3 cups already in his blood stream, he drank down another coffee because Coulson had handed him one.  
      As he ate, peering at his new boss between bites, he wondered who exactly was this silver-suited man. He interacted with all the crew, seeming familiar with every job, giving instructions and helping set up here and there. He walked with a strong sense of purpose and power, but nowhere near Fury’s level of gravitas. He seemed inconspicuous in the crowd, but a vital heartbeat behind everything. Clint finished the last of his bagel in pensive silence, cataloging the crew’s responses and noting who offered Coulson genuine smiles and who seemed to shrink in his presence. There was respect there, Clint was sure, but there was also a quiet level of fear.   
      “Worried that you signed up for something too big to handle?” Somehow Coulson had appeared beside him, half-smile on his face.  
      “Yeah, you caught me. This,” Clint gestured at the rapidly growing crew, “Is a lot more than I’m used to.”  
      “Good. Your work deserves bigger projects, bigger budgets. This will be career changing exposure.”  
      “Slow down sir, you don’t want me getting an ego on the first day, do you?”  
      “Take the compliment, Barton. And don’t let me down today.” Coulson walked away, still as much as an enigma as before, and Clint watched his retreat with eyebrows furrowed and an empty plate in his lap. Coulson stopped a few feet down the path and turned to Clint.  
      “Aren’t you going to follow?”  
      And so he did. 

~

 _“So what’s your favorite memory about parks?”_  
   
      The shoot had been running smoothly, with Clint quickly memorizing who is who on set. Coulson was the director of The Last Green Space, as Clint had guessed, and was giving out instructions better than any director Clint had worked with before. He was clear and efficient, and obviously experienced. Coulson wasted no time, knowing that their set’s light was moving rapidly across the sky, yet he spent extra precious minutes making sure Clint understood the vision of this documentary and how much Coulson was willing to leave up to Clint. He could feel himself flushing with the attention and trust that Coulson was giving him, and his determination to not fuck up was soaring through the roof. It was a heavy pressure hanging over him, but Clint used it like fuel, knowing he worked best when feeling watched.  
  
       Six hours into shoot, they broke for lunch, and Clint’s stomach was thankful for the union rule. He was extra thankful for the plates of steaming pasta and fresh salad that he gobbled down. He felt someone slide into the seat beside him.  
      “I’ve been helping put together the dailies. There’s some astonishing footage on there, Barton. Imagine my surprise to see that some of it’s from before the shoot began.” Coulson had switched to sunglasses and Clint couldn’t read his expression. He grunted noncommittally through a bite of pasta.  
      “I’m not complaining. Those shots of the park just as the sun rises, with the light reflecting off the dew on the playground? They’re perfect. Somehow you’ve managed to capture the mix of wonder and nostalgia that this film is going for, even before you knew what it was about.” Coulson stood, clasping Clint’s shoulder briefly as he left. “It’s good. But don’t sacrifice yourself too much for the job.” He spoke with the truth of someone who knew the sacrifice well. “Take a break when you get a chance.”  
       The break never came, since Clint was determined to finish all he could before the light was lost. The crew didn’t seem to mind, since more shooting that day meant a lot less the next. Coulson gave fewer directions as the sun fell into the west, letting Clint take more of the reins and direct the crew to help him capture the shot he wanted. He was running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the rush to his head he felt every time he got an approving smile from Coulson. It was a dangerous path, but Clint kept pushing for that perfect shot hoping to get another pleased look from his silver-suited crush.  
       And yes, Clint had to slap that label to what he was feeling, hoping it would help him compartmentalize. Yet the twist in his stomach only grew tighter as he allowed himself longer glances over to the director’s chair. It was for work, he told himself. He wanted to get approval before moving on from the shot. But Clint knew his hungry eyes lingered too long on that jaw and those upturned lips than was strictly professional. 

 

~

        Shadows had fallen across the playground and the streetlamps had turned on. The crew began to wrap up the cords and fold up the tables, anticipating a long night of sleep. Most people, once strangers, now offered Clint handshakes and smiles, knowing their day off from filming was heavily due to his ability to get a great shot on the first take. Tomorrow all they needed was the actors for voice-overs, and no cameras were needed for that.  
       Clint sat in front of his own camera, swinging by himself, content to be the last to pack up. It had been a long day and he was tired and sore in places he hadn’t felt in a while, but he was confident. Even with his legs in the air, this was the steadiest ground he had stood on in a while.  
       “So what is _your_ favorite memory about parks?” Coulson stood next to his camera, bag slung over his shoulder, clearly waiting for Clint to touch ground again.  
      “Beside this one?” Clint slowed his swing a little, wanting to watch Coulson with eyes that weren’t moving. “My brother and I… we had a rough childhood, Its not a secret because I’m not ashamed. It shaped me as much as it scarred me. But sometimes when we were younger these parks, these green fields where we could play and shout and run without consequences and rules, became our hiding places. We moved around a lot, but there was always a park hidden somewhere, even if it was a long walk away.” Clint slowed to a stop, feet dragging in the woodchips. He looked to Coulson in the dim light. “One time after a particularly bad night at home, my brother took me to the nearest park and told me to swing. I didn’t want to. I was crying and hurting, but he plopped me in a seat and started to push.” He smiled with the memory. “You don’t know true height on a swing set until you have someone taller and stronger push you. I was swinging so high I felt like I could fly away. I told my brother that, and he told me to do it: to just fly away. He said I could, that it was possible. He kept pushing me harder and harder and I had stopped crying but I was still feeling afraid. I remember looking down while at the top of my swing and thinking ‘wow the top of Barney’s head looks like that?’” He chuckled and he heard Coulson laugh as well. “I was a weird kid. I honest to god thought I could fly. If only I wasn’t so afraid. Barney kept pushing me and yelling at me, saying all I had to do was jump. Just jump and let go and spread my arms and fly. And if I couldn’t do it, if my wings couldn’t open in time, than he would catch me and help me try again.”  
      “Did you jump?” Coulson asked softly.  
      Clint tried to catch his eyes, but it was too dark. “I did. It was a disaster. Barney caught me, alright. Caught me with his face. I crash-landed into him so hard I was sure I had broken his head. But he got right back up and helped me dust off, telling me that maybe I was still a bit too young for fully working wings, and that I should just keep trying, and keep making it through each year, until I could fly away from home by myself.”  
      “And did you make it out?”  
      Clint stilled completely and looked where he hoped Coulson was standing. “I did.”  
       He felt something shift in the air around him, almost like a sigh. Clint stood and wandered to where his camera stood, tall and alone on it’s tripod. He saw Coulson heading back to the last van and he called out, hand outstretched (for what, he wasn’t sure).  
       Coulson shook his head, indicating he couldn’t hear what he said. But he waved a hand goodbye and made the universal sign for telephone.  
      He would call him. And for now Clint will wait.

       His old car rattled and echoed in the park, shocking a few sleeping birds awake. The driver felt awake as well, with a beating heart and hopeful thoughts.

       This mere career change could be his wings and fresh start.


	2. The Missing Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why was Clint in such a hurry to Shield Studios? Why was his mind on a desperate repeat of "please please anything but this. please give me something better than this" ?
> 
> This is what happened before Shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The missing overture to Act I.

           Clint was never good at beginnings. He was lousy at endings, but at least most people seemed to dread them as much as he did. He was wedged in a busy crowd, feeling like he had shrunk and was wearing skin a size too big. The people around him stuck out hands to greet and plastered on smiles to say hello and all Clint wanted to do was run away to someplace quiet. But his luck had run out with his money last month, and all his bills were overdue. He had no one to blame but himself.

           His heart was beating in a way that throbbed in his fingertips. He tried to calm down. _They’re just_ people. _I’m already here; they hired me. Just smile and focus on the work. There’s no one left to impress. Just get through the day and get your paycheck._

            “Hi, hi, hello. You must be our assistant cameraman, right? Burton?” A mop of brown hair under a too-small newsboy cap appeared in front of his nose. Clint stepped back, letting some air between them.  
            “I’m _Barton_. Clint Barton.” The man took his hand and shook enthusiastically and much too long. “And I’m the assistant _cinematogra_ -”  
            “Wonderful wonderful. I’m sure you’ve made your way around the room and know everyone by now. I’m the director, Roman Melrose. I’m sure you know me.”  
            “Yeah, I-” He began to lie.  
            “So little known fact, but me and the lead camera guy don’t really see eye to eye so I’m hoping you can help me out a little. Be a second opinion, you know?”  
            It wasn’t a ‘little know fact’. Everyone on set, even Clint who had just arrived, was very aware of the intense glares and angry cusses that have been thrown between Roman and his cinematographer Theo. No one knows why they still work together after all these years, but there have been whispers of bribery. Roman may have a large ego, but he also has a fat wallet that can mollify most complaints.

           “So you want me to back you up when you and Theo argue?” His response was met with a loud clap on his back. The hand lingered on his lower back.

            “You’re catching on! Good job Burton. Let me take you over to Theo right now. There’s something I wanted to ask him before we started.” Roman kept his hand on Clint’s back and it took all of his willpower to not squirm away. They approached Theo who was chatting with a small group of the crew, laughing about something. As much as Roman’s touchiness made Clint feel babied, he felt diminutive in the face of Theo’s obvious experience. He wore each year on his face like a wrinkle, and his black hair was patched with grey, probably from the stress of Roman’s films. He smiled at Clint but his face immediately fell when he saw who was standing behind him.

           “Roman, I told you not to-”

           “What are you guys up to? I’m sure you’ve met your new crewmember, Clint Burton. He’ll be on camera with ol’ Theo here.” He nudged Theo in a way that was a bit too hard to be friendly.

           “It’s Barton. Clint Barton.” Clint slapped what he hoped was a pleasant smile on his face.

           One of the crew laughed. “Whatever you say, Bond. Roman’s got a hellish way with names. You’ll be called Second DP most of the time around here.”

           The tall guy to Clint’s left looked at him. “You gotta any siblings, Bond?” The surprise on his face must have read as terror and everyone chuckled. “It’s not an interrogation, man, don’t worry. Short Dan was lamenting his height and it came out that he’s the oldest in his family.”

           “Short Dan?”

           “Yeah and I’m Tall Dan and I’m the youngest. We’ve been asking ‘round the group to see if we can figure why.”

           “I can tell you the answer.” Clint could feel the collective eye roll as Roman reinstated himself in the conversation. “It all begins in the mother’s womb. Basically the woman’s body doesn’t recognize the pregnancy at first and tries to attack it, thinking it is a parasite or disease. And so the mother’s body actually takes away some of the nutrients the baby needs, therefore!” And here Roman paused in a way he clearly thought was dramatic. “The firstborn child is smaller! With more pregnancies the body just accepts that it is pregnant and so the younger children tend to be larger.”

           “I have an older brother.” Clint found himself saying.

           “And are you taller?”

           “By about a couple inches I think?”

           “And are you gay?”

           Clint felt a gagging motion start working in his throat. He felt a million emotions at once and none of them were pleasant. He could feel his cheeks reddening and his eyes bugging. Even though he was sure he looked like a cartoon character, Clint tried to calm himself long enough to make sounds that sounded reasonably human. “I- Why would you ask?”

           Roman gave Clint a long look and then winked. His blush must have cranked up to fire engine because Clint was starting to see red. Roman put a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa there, Burton. I’m from New York. I don’t care if you are or aren’t. The whole mother’s womb thing works vice versa too. With each kid she takes away less nutrients but she adds more, I don’t know the medical term, _femininity_ I guess. Second and third borns are more likely to be gay. It’s a fact.”

           Clint couldn’t dispute him because he could barely breathe. He was keeping his face neutral but he had yet to master control over the red flushing his cheeks. He wasn’t sure whether he was embarrassed because of the shock of the question or because Roman had seemed to assume that he was…

           Clint hadn’t really thought about it or put a label on it. Who was this fucking New Yorker with his fucking stupid hat who rang an eleven on the creep scale? Who was he to assume? Clint could feel his thoughts dissolving into a repetition of _bullshit, that’s bullshit_ over and over again.

           He wasn’t sure of anything except the almost drowning surge of feeling out of place that was threatening to drag him under. Clint tried to carry on, nodding at the right places in the conversation, but when he wasn’t feeling Roman’s hand on his shoulder he sure as hell felt his stare.

           He had signed the contract. He was more than broke and on his last carton of ramen. He was stuck.

           He was only 22.

 

~

 

Two years, eight months, one lawsuit, and $3700 later, Clint Barton left Romanesque Studios with his car packed full of his few possessions hoping that somebody somewhere was still hiring. He had called everywhere and hauled his portfolio to every edge of town. He had one interview left and he was determined and desperate that it goes well.

But this being Clint Barton’s life, he was already running late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the farthest thing from a doctor as one can be, so don't take any offense. Roman's "medical facts" are an almost verbatim account of a real experience. 
> 
> Directors can be dicks and as much as I would like to extricate revenge on this particular idiot, names have been changed to protect identities.
> 
> Take this as a cautionary tale. Everything Roman does, please never do to another human.
> 
> Anyways...
> 
> This was the missing 'before Shield Studios, where was Clint?' overture to Act I.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


	3. Act II - Interior, a flashy party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good parties come with a side order of betrayal.

     “Are you driving yourself home?”

    Clint was knocked out of his daze by a warm voice at his shoulder. He held up his wine glass. “This isn’t water, if that’s what you’re asking.” Coulson smiled as he took Clint’s glass from him and replaced it with something golden brown.  
  
    “Trust me. You’re going to need something stronger if you want to get through this party.” Coulson tilted his head towards the living room where the crowd was gathering. “Fury’s been looking for you. He wants to start.”  
  
    “Everybody’s here?” Clint couldn’t hide the small waver in his voice.  
  
    “It will be fine, Barton. It’s just an informal thing. No one expects perfection.”

    He knew Coulson was right. This was just a pre-showing; nothing was finalized at all. Clint’s mind wouldn’t let him relax. What was supposed to be a private gathering had turned into a huge party at their producer’s “small guesthouse”.  He was shocked when the taxi had pulled in front of a mansion and even more rattled when he saw every room was full of people. It turned out that Shield Studios’ main production had just wrapped and they were piggybacking on the pre-showing to hold a wrap party. Everyone and their assistant and assistant’s assistant from Shield was here. Apparently it was a night not to be missed, and here Clint was, strikingly out of place amongst the designer clothes and bright smiles, crossing his fingers that _The Last Green Space_ was something worthy of this audience.

    He lagged behind Coulson, torn between hiding in the back and joining him up front with Fury. The Director regarded Clint with an enigmatic look that left him feeling more anxious than before. There was a reason why Clint preferred his work to be behind the camera; the curious stares that prickled the back of his neck as he sat down were making him regret his decision to sit up front. The lights dimmed and Coulson stood up and turned to address the crowd.  
  
    “It’s wonderful to see all of you here tonight and on the behalf of Fury and the rest of Shield, we would like to welcome you to a pre-pre-screening of _The Last Green Space_.”  
  
    “Ah! Wait, wait. I’m here now.” A man pushed out from the back of the crowd, shooting off grins and highfives as he passed. Nobody seemed to mind his noisy entrance; rather, everyone’s eyes followed him eagerly. It might have been because of the recognizable red suit and gold tie or the reputation that followed it.  
  
    “Mr. Stark. Nice of you to join us.”  
  
    Tony Stark strode to the front, sunglasses still on, and situated himself near Fury. “I like to see where my money goes.”  
  
    Fury narrowed his eyes. “And some of us would like to see the movie. So if you could please…?” He gestured to an empty chair, not asking but commanding. Tony shrugged nonchalantly but still slid into his chair.  
  
    “Without further ado, The Initiative presents _The Last Green Space_.”

    Coulson slid back into his seat and placed a hand on Clint’s jittery knee. Clint felt his nerves melt a little and he returned Coulson’s smile as the music swelled on screen. He was quickly absorbed into the images even though they were his own. A series of almost-stills of the park flowed past his eyes. All the moments he shot, early morning dewdrops, a couple hand in hand, children playing tag, were made poignant against the backdrop of a solo piano. It was just a placeholder soundtrack but Clint was still taken a little aback at how beautiful it was. Even as the film showed a bright sun and children at play, there was a pull in the music that made you feel a sense of loss, as if you were watching moments that could never return. The changing images stopped and the sun set on screen as the camera zoomed slowly out. Then suddenly: focus on an empty park, patches of dark green under streetlights, dwarfed by the obelisk-like highrises on every side. It was a perfect set up and the title appeared to the last strains of the theme.

    “ _So what’s your favorite memory about parks?”_ As Clint predicted, the unedited reel so far was bits and pieces of the interviews. All the childhood stories, first dates, and good memories. The dogs that brought their now-married owners together, the child who got lost and stumbled upon a secret garden. The images, all sparkling and hopeful, alternated with the interviews and Clint knew there would be more voiceovers after post. It was stunning, even unfinished, and he felt a bloom of pride warm his chest. The image changed to nighttime at the park, the space dim compared to the bright buildings flanking it. The next story began.

_“When we were younger these parks, these green fields where we could play and shout and run without consequences and rules, became our hiding places…”_

    Clint let out an audible gasp and felt Coulson’s hand on his knee again. He refused to meet his eye, not trusting his emotions to not blare on his face. There he was, swinging gently in a patch of golden streetlight, telling a personal story to the camera; to the room full of strangers he never meant to tell. He watched in horror, trying to process and compartmentalize everything at once. He shrugged out from under Coulson’s hand, desperately needing room to breathe, to think, to run. He tried to purge his shock and anger, struggling to be clinical and just _watch_ the film. It was a moving sequence. The story was organic and heartfelt (because it _was_ ) and he looked good telling it. The lighting hit at the right angles and his slight sway on the swing cast dancing shadows across the grass. It was artful and it was sincere. And it hurt so much.

    “ _Did you make it out?_ ”

    The camera zoomed in slightly, focusing on Clint’s face and the intense gaze he held. “ _I did_.” He felt the audience react rather than heard it. It was that surge of energy that builds when a performance had been _really really_ good; that urge to give an ovation. The film went black and the credits rolled. He knew people were clapping and clapping _loud_ but the white noise roar in his ears had returned, his anger making his blood rush to his head. People began standing up, but Coulson put a heavy hand on his shoulder. It didn’t matter; the tension coiled in Clint’s body wasn’t letting him move freely anyways.  He resolutely kept his eyes forward, trying to breathe slowly and emulate the blank screen in front of him. It wasn’t working.

    “I told you _no_.” He whispered.  
  
    Coulson leaned in close, his voice a hot breath in Clint’s ear. “Let’s go outside.” Coulson led Clint, hand never leaving his back, both a comfort and a sharp reminder. The broke through the tight crowd, most of whom were congratulating Clint as much as Coulson, to a patio door. No one else was outside and Clint let out a breath he never knew he was holding.    
  
    “I’m out.” Something primal was clawing under Clint’s skin and making his legs itch with a need to run. “Don’t even try to pay me. I don’t want _anything_ from you bastards.”  
  
    Coulson grabbed his bicep, keeping him in place. “This wasn’t me. Clint you need to trust-“  
  
    “How can I? I specifically told you-“ He tried futilely to rip himself from Coulson’s surprising grip. ”There are rules about these kind of things! Papers to sign, waivers-"  
  
    “ _Clint._ Don’t you think I know this?” He roughly grabbed his shoulders, making him turn face to face. “They went above my heads.”  
  
    He met Coulson’s eyes, not even trying to hide his fury. “But you still filmed me. You turned the camera on. You didn’t _ask_.”  
  
    Coulson had the humility to grow red in the face and loosen his grip on Clint. “I’m sorry. But I’m a director, Clint. I’m an _artist_ and this-“ He cupped Clint’s jaw loosely, thumb just brushing over his bottom lip. “How could I help myself?”  
  
    His breathing was sharp and erratic. Clint felt something rattling in his chest, scraping at his ribs and wanting out. He was afraid to open his mouth, in fear of throwing up or saying words he couldn’t take back.  
  
    Coulson’s hand still rested softly on Clint’s face. “The scene was beautiful; your words were beautiful. _You_ -” He didn’t continue. He let the unsaid possibilities hang in the air, making Clint’s mind race and his shallow breaths seem deafening in the silence. Suddenly, Coulson dropped both his hands and tucked them into his pockets, like the moment had never happened.  
  
    “I’m sorry.” He meant it, Clint could tell. But it still didn’t take away the fact that it had happened.  
  
    He took a steadying breath but his voice still sounded weak to his ears. “I don’t respond well to being _used_.” Clint broke the eye contact, not able to face Coulson with that confession still echoing in the air between them.  
  
    “I know.” And Coulson’s hand was back, running lightly down his arm, a ghost touch of comfort. “I _know_ , and I still failed.”

    He eyed him warily, wondering how much of his past Coulson knew or whether he had just guessed. There were bits and pieces, a breadcrumb trail of gossip articles and overheard conversations. But no one had ever cared enough to try to collect and piece the shards of Clint’s life back together. Not even Clint had bothered; he drove away from the wreckage while it was still burning.

    “I don’t trust you.” If Clint sounded cold, he didn’t care. It was a fact.  
  
    "I will fix this. You can trust that.”  
  
    He gave Coulson a curt nod and retreated backwards from his touch, from his words. He stepped past him, reaching for the door handle.  
  
    “Can you be honest with me, Clint, before I change the film?” He nodded without turning around to Coulson. “On a purely objective level, if you were the director, if you were the _audience_ , would you leave your scene in the final film?”

    Clint opened the door, letting the bright lights and the noise of the crowd crash over him, almost drowning his answer.

    “Yes.”

    He stepped forward and closed the door behind him. Clint grabbed the first drink he could from a passing waiter. He tried to swallow it down and found he couldn’t.

    It hurt too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed, Clint has a really shitty past, and more will be revealed soon.
> 
> It's getting a little heavy, but it will eventually get much better! Have faith in these two; they'll make it.
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated :)


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